


Out Damned Spot

by Ciaossu



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Gen, Grammar tenses all over the place I'm sorry, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), References to Macbeth, Some Descriptions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 08:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21096761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciaossu/pseuds/Ciaossu
Summary: In the dead of night, it is easy to forget the glories of war.Linhardt had never once regretted choosing to stand by Edelgard’s side. They had become friends in school, and beyond that, there was a truth behind Edelgard’s declarations that stirred something in his leisurely heart. What was the point of seeking truth if what was true was concealed behind the manipulations of a beast?So Linhardt returned to Garreg Mach to support Edelgard. He agreed, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, to fight by her side. It was easy, in the light of day, when everything was shining and the light revealed the truth to them so easily, to brush aside any doubt and convince themselves that what they were doing was right.That did not mean that Linhardt was a soldier.





	Out Damned Spot

In the dead of night, it is easy to forget the glories of war.

Linhardt had never once regretted choosing to stand by Edelgard’s side. They had become friends in school, and beyond that, there was a truth behind Edelgard’s declarations that stirred something in his leisurely heart. What was the point of seeking truth if what was true was concealed behind the manipulations of a beast?

So Linhardt returned to Garreg Mach to support Edelgard. He agreed, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, to fight by her side. It was easy, in the light of day, when everything was shining and the light revealed the truth to them so easily, to brush aside any doubt and convince themselves that what they were doing was right.

That did not mean that Linhardt was a soldier.

It was quiet in the infirmary, dark and alone. Manuela had gone off to rest, weary from tending to those who had been less fortunate on the battlefield. None were injured enough to require a stay, and Manuela was free to depart without the fear of something happening when she was gone from their bedside.

That gave Linhardt privacy as he furiously scrubbed his hands in the small basin. He’d lost track of how long he’d stood there, wiping at his skin until it had turned a stinging red from the constant friction. Still, he continued to scrub, almost manic in his actions, dipping his hands in the water again and again.

_Yet here’s a spot…_

Linhardt let out a frustrated groan as he continued to wash away his skin. Still, no matter how he tried, no matter what he did, the stains would never disappear. Red splatter, covering his hands, the pair of those that covered the fallen...The water had long since turned murky - hell is murky - stained from the efforts he had put in to cleanse himself of marks that would never leave him, no matter how hard he tried.

It was silly. He knew it. He knew it was, but it did not stop the tremble in his knees, nor the shaking in his hands late at night when he was alone with his thoughts. He was a healer predominantly, and others were stained far more than he was, surely, but every time a lance was placed in his hands, the weight dragged him down, down, down until he could feel the very stains on his hands threatening to creep into his heart, his soul, and stain them just as much.

_Fie! A soldier and afeared?_

The last battle had been standard fare. Keep his distance, tend to the wounded, rush in only if need be to provide assistance. He’d been happy to stay that way, far from the clashes and singing tones of metal. Until he’d noticed Bernadetta’s weapon tumble from her hands, pushed back by a soldier and with no one close enough to help. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t had the time, just charged in with his lance in hand and did what he must, which-

Pierced through the rib cage, continue driving forward until blade meets muscle meets ligament meets heart, ignore the blood that comes pouring out as you drive through has to be done, have to survive, don’t look in their eyes to see the life leaving them -_ who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him -_

Linhardt wretched, hands flying from the bowl to steady himself upon the table as shudders wracked his form. Deep breaths, soothing ones, he squeezed his eyes shut as he forced his mind not to linger, not to think of it. _These hands_ \- his hands - _ne’er be clean?_ Maybe so, but when he opens his eyes there’s a caking under his nails that draws out a choked wail before his hands are submerged once more.

The water helps. While the stains never leave, there’s a reassurance in the water. A calming. It moves violently, a mirror of the frantic scrubbing that never ceases, but it masks. It covers, it hides the stains from plain sight, red,violent red muted in its midst. 

There’s a tang of iron that never seems to leave the air anymore. It follows them everywhere, from hall to bed to the battlefield and never lets up, carried in the weapons, the armor, the blood that spills onto the ground. The scent can never be fully, truly covered and hidden. It always lurks, living in one’s nostrils to remind them when a moment of peace covers the world that battle is always just a moment away.

_All the perfumes of Dagda will not sweeten this little hand._

Linhardt’s moves are frantic, and just as abruptly his hands are ripped from the water’s grasp. The drips from his hand to the floor break the silence of the room, second only to the heaving gasps that match the movement of Linhardt’s chest.

There’s a mirror in the infirmary. Manuela had been lamenting of how she wanted it removed for the sake of patients. In it, the man people would claim to know as Linhardt stares at him. There’s bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess and he stared back at Linhardt with a fear in his face that told of far too much for one his age. He looked frantic, searching, hungry for something that Linhardt couldn’t provide and the sight sends Linhardt’s pulse beating faster, rising in his chest.

Fool, idiot, a boy who cannot pretend like the others that he is fine, that nothing is wrong, that their way is right and there is no reason to hesitate for those who oppose them, no reason to feel anything as they are cut down for it must be done, it must, move on, do not mourn them, why are you stained when no one else carries a darkness in their eyes - _wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not so pale what’s done cannot be undone -_

“Linhardt?”

He jumped. It’s not his proudest moment, but when his hand protested how quickly he turned to the doorway, Dorothea’s gaze did not carry a shred of disappointment as it fell upon him. Her eyes drifted from his hands, to his hair, his wide eyes, wide with the wakefulness their professor had always wished he had in their class. She smiled instead, sad, understanding.

“Have you been here long?”

Linhardt had to swallow and cough before his voice felt sturdy enough to be any kind of human.

“Long enough... I suppose it is terribly late. I’m sure Ferdinand will be pounding at my door in the early hours of the morning.” _Knocking at the gate…_

Dorothea laughed. “Always eager to be prepared, he is.” The laugh did not reach her eyes, Linhardt noted.

Slowly, she entered the infirmary. Her hand was small, delicate, extended out for him to take. Linhardt could see the same stains, faint and small, covering her own hands. “To bed?” She asked, quiet in the room that felt large enough to swallow them whole.

Linhardt nodded, his hand placed feather light in hers. “To bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea. I started writing. I had a meltdown. Bon appetit.


End file.
